


Aftermath

by MippyMoo



Category: MassiveCraft - Fandom
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Gen, Imprisonment, MassiveCraft, Oh boy this one's fun, Physical Abuse, Please read the tags slkdjfj, Psychological Trauma, Public Beating, Refusal of Care, This is heavy shit, Threats of Violence, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:53:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23430493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MippyMoo/pseuds/MippyMoo
Summary: Yathanae is arrested for standing up for a friend. A severely pissed-off noble speaks to her in prison, asking her motive.
Kudos: 3





	Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> It's been pointed out to me that this has a lot of commas and long sentences, but that's on purpose. It's meant to be almost stream-of-consciousness, so thoughts are joined together, not necessarily always forming proper sentences. Please enjoy!
> 
> Only Yathanae is my own character! The others mentioned and all the working parts that created this scene were played and created completely by other people. Come check us out at MassiveCraft.com!

_Whips cracking against air and skin send her into a panic. She hears the yells of her friend, and his eyes shut tight against the pain as he cries out with each repetitive strike. She rushes forward, tears in her eyes, and pushes past those around her to reach the front of the crowd, to be closer to him, to stop the pain that she almost feels for herself, to do_ anything _—_

~

Yathanae is broken out of her thoughts and brought back to the cold, damp, moss-covered stone floor she's lying face-down on when someone behind her—a woman—says, "This one?"

Her question is only answered with a gruff "Aye," the word echoing behind a guard's helmet.

The prison door opens with an old metallic creak, and what sounds like two sets of footsteps enter her large cell. Yathanae doesn't even bother to look up, but she wants to, she really does, because what if they try something, what if they hurt her even _more_? The woman is whispering something to the guard, putting a bag on a nearby table, and the guard's voice, somehow both echoed and muffled at the same time, says, "Need help with moving her?"

Yathanae clenches her fists where they lay against the floor, bracing herself.

What she doesn't expect, however, is the woman to say, "I'm here to patch you up," as she kneels down to put a hand on Yathanae's shoulder.

"Best to lay her down on her back, yes?" the guard mutters in suggestion.

At the touch of the woman, the small Elf hunches her back even further—as much as she can, what with the pain—and lets out an incredibly small noise that could be interpreted as a very quiet, very mumbled, "No."

"Please, let me patch your leg," the woman says, and Yathanae barely registers footsteps coming down the stone steps into the dungeon, closer to her cell.

"No," whispers Yathanae. "Why would y-you help me? You broke—you _hurt_ —" Her small, almost childish voice stops, as if choking itself off in order to stop her talking.

"I'm a healer," says the woman, and someone is ordering her to move out of the way, and she obliges, standing to give the Elf space. It is not for her own comfort, however, because another Human, another guard soon takes her place, standing menacingly over Yathanae, armor clanking.

"Duke Harhold is here to see our prisoner," he says, his body sturdy and his face free of a helmet.

A look must be given where Yathanae cannot see it, and a man's voice—a familiar one, the one that led to this—says, "Merely speak. You needn't fear, Duke-Consort Dianne."

"My pardon, Duke Harhold. I'm just doing my work," says the woman, and Yathanae now has a name for the healer who wants to help after what she let happen, after what she condoned by doing nothing about, and Yathanae couldn't really care less at the moment about what her name is.

"I come here with questions, girl." Yathanae can hear the man behind her with freezing clarity, and she knows what he looks like: blond, almost white hair; blue eyes, an uptight expression, regal clothing. "And I expect an answer to each of them."

"Why," she responds, and she realizes that her voice is barely audible, not even really a question but a statement, but she doesn't care because the guard is responding and that means that he heard her just fine.

"You don't question him," he says.

The man isn't anyone _special_. She repeats herself obstinately. " _Why._ "

"Because he is going to ask you questions," the healer with a name ( _she doesn't care, she doesn't care_ ) says curtly from behind her. At the same time, a guard gives a stomp to her left arm, grunting with the movement, and Yathanae knows that he could do it a lot harder, cause her a lot more pain than he is, but she still can't help the small sob that escapes her.

"Stupid," he mumbles as he retracts his foot.

"S-stop," Yathanae mutters helplessly, uselessly.

Thankfully, nothing else happens, but the man—Harhold—speaks. "There are few men or women so bold as to attack me and my kin, and even fewer who are allowed to live past the experience. Your answers could mean the difference between where you stand."

~

_She hears a voice near her, and it says, in a horribly stuck-up tone, "Good. Even better that he sees loved ones crying for him."_

_And she turns, and it's a man with noble garb standing next to a younger woman who bears a resemblance to him, and she knows that she shouldn't but her mind is so filled with anger and sadness and outrage at his mistreatment that she swings a fist at his back._

_He merely stumbles forward with a small, pained sound, and the woman grabs at the hand that hadn't hit the man. It's a mistake, as she immediately swings her fist again at her face, and the woman's hands fly up to protect herself from any other incoming blows, but she's landed a hit each. The guards, however, seize her quickly—_

~

"What did you hope to accomplish from assaulting me and my daughter?"

Yathanae brought her clenched fists closer to her torso, the left side of her face almost burning with the cold. However, she speaks.

"You said Jager _deserved_ it," she says quietly, and each word is positively filled with resentment and anger and _pain_.

"As the criminals do," Harhold says, his voice indicating how he waves off the statement. "As the emperors of old have decreed with their laws."

The healer says, "Spirit's sake, girl. If that was a good enough reason, everyone here would be bruised in the face right now." And Yathanae savagely thinks _good, you deserve to have what you dish out, you deserve to be bruised and hurt and damaged in the same way you hurt others._

"If a punishment is dished out by the Violet Order, it is deserved. Our job is to interpret the emperor's law in a literal sense," says a third guard, and this one is closest to the cell door, the most distant. Yathanae is only slightly thankful, as she doesn't think she could handle it if anyone else was closer to her.

She only shakes her head in response to what is said, struggling to think. Yathanae may not obey any kind of law like the empire gives— _especially_ relating to their laws on religion—but she knows when to not speak, if only in fear for her continued intactity.

~

_She's being forced to kneel in front of a crowd, lifted above them, but it is not a position of honor, and her friend is moved just so she can receive a similar punishment. She's crying, screaming things like "no" and "please" and "stop," but the men and women in armor do not listen. One of them asks for a hammer—_

~

"I suggest you do not give me any more snark," Harhold says imperiously. "I am perfectly capable of letting you leave here with more casts and still sleep soundly. Again. What did you hope to accomplish?"

Yathanae barely can sort through the chaos and screaming and broiling anger in her mind at the question. "You _wanted my friend to hurt_ ," she said, her voice still shaking and quiet.

"He committed a crime," the healer dismisses easily. "Criminals get punished."

"Do you not understand the question, or are you purposefully avoiding it because you have no answer to it?" the noble asks, sounding dangerously annoyed.

"He didn't _do anything_ ," Yathanae says.

A snort comes from above her. "A _killer_ didn't do anything. What jest is this?" a guard guffaws.

"He didn't kill anyone," she defends again, more firmly this time, and her voice shakes slightly less.

"Guards," the healer says, almost exasperatedly, "please do enlighten her on the charges."

"Your _friend_ is an assassin who had a contract to murder Baron Salvatore de Olzolli," the guard above her spoke. "Not only that, as he has proven to be an adulterer, committed murder on multiple accounts, and been a distrustful person to the Violet Order and Empire. This _killer_ , _adulterer_ , is not your friend, but a mere rat running through our sewers."

The guard's voice is cold, not indifferent but angry at the mere charges presented against Jager, the strong Elf who did nothing but protect Yathanae. She didn't believe him.

"Mm, trust Salvatore to be getting into trouble; I'm surprised he's still alive at this rate," a new voice says, though this one clanks with armor as well. "Regardless, for assaulting His Grace and the High Lady Harhold, I think it only fair that beatings be dished out daily whilst she's in custody. Athos, ensure three nights are given to her."

A short, grating noise comes from above Yathanae, and she can only presume that the guard nodded as her heart sank in her chest and more tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

Harhold gave a tired sigh as he continued. "And so you assaulted me and my kin for agreeing with his punishment. There were many who cheered and jeered, yet you came for me. _Why._ Are you out for my blood? Are you a hired killer too, perhaps?"

"Perhaps she is, Duke Harhold," the guard above her says, and Yathanae was almost consumed by anger.

She knows she shouldn't say this. She knows she shouldn't have _done_ what she had, knows that it was hurting someone else even though she shouldn't, knows that it was simply ... _mean_.

But she grits out, "You were closest. You were loudest." Her voice forces itself out of her mouth, almost against her will, but not really, because she _wants_ him to know, this stuck-up noble who thinks his family deserves betterment that others don't because of unfortunate circumstances, who _deserves_ to know why he shouldn't do what he did. "You were happy with me _crying_."

The healer simply sighs, and the guard above her says, "That's what an assassin would say, no?" with almost a small chuckle.

"Quiet," Harhold's voice says, deafening in the quiet it leaves behind in its wake. "Are you aware of who I am, girl? Of my grand and ancient lineage?"

And Yathanae could care less about titles or who she's talking to or what she can say or if she can look up without asking permission or anything of the sort, so she says, manner unchanging, "No. And I don't care."

"Would any of you kindly remind the girl of who I am? If _anyone_ here bloody remembers anymore," Harhold says, and his word leaves room for threat.

"This is His Grace Hengest Harhold," the guard behind her volunteers immediately, "Duke of Vlissinghelm. Spirit bless me if I pronounced that right," he added as a hopeful afterthought.

"Mm, you are quite right, Ser Aurelius. My thanks."

Yathanae again discards the name, because the only one that matters at the moment is the man who did wrong, the man who laughed at her friend's back being cut open on lashings, the man who watched as there was no available hammer and someone _swung the side of a polearm at her knee, cracking against her leg over and over again as her screaming sobs echoed from her elevated position of ridicule and pain and_ no one _moved to help her even as the bone finally snapped—_

"I expect an adequate apology from you within the coming days, or my own justice will find its way to your precious 'Jager'."

She goes completely still at that, even her pain fading for just a moment before surging back into her right leg, and she bites her lip and suppresses a pained gasp.

"Am I clear?" Harhold reiterates, and his voice is steely and more dangerous than any man's she had ever heard before.

Yathanae, slowly, nods once, resentment filling the single action.

That didn't seem to be enough for the noble. "I am more than capable of ensuring you come home to find your good friend's face lacerated by a hundred canine teeth, still gurgling on his own blood as he pleads for your assistance. I dare say I might even take some enjoyment from it. Now, I repeat. Am. I. Clear?"

She is quiet for a long moment, and as she debated whether to respond or simply nod, the guard above Yathanae commanded, voice booming against the cell walls, " _Speak._ "

Her mind suddenly flashes to a picture of a dead body, but the flesh was gone, gone, taken and removed and stripped by her own hands, the skeleton walking but not breathing through unnatural, demonic means, and his face—

"Clear," she says, slowly and filled with absolute malice, because this man does not deserve an apology, but images keep flashing through her head, relentless, ones that she wishes she could forget, and she squeezes her eyes shut in effort against them, and—

And she can't lose another.

The air of pressure in the cell lifts, and Harhold seems appeased. "Good," he says. "Guards. My Lady."

The healer and guards say their goodbyes, and the noble's cape rustles as he takes his leave, footfalls on the stone steps out of the dungeon like death tolls.

**Author's Note:**

> Once again, the only character I've created is Yathanae, and all the other characters, both named and unnamed, were played and created by other people. I've edited and revised this over the course of almost a year, abandoning it and coming back to it time and time again, and after seeing Ravenous77 post a few works into this fandom, I got excited and decided to post all of mine. Please tell me what you thought of it!


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